


The Aftermath

by am_bellanoire



Series: The Weekend Trilogy [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Family Drama, Infidelity, Love Triangles, Moral Dilemmas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-26 21:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14411412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/am_bellanoire
Summary: "Having to choose between the two is like being asked to decide between my heart and my lungs. I can't live without one, can't breathe without the other. But I need to breathe to live..."/"From the beginning I knew there could be no future for us. So I can only blame myself for foolishly losing my heart to a witch who belongs to another..."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The long awaited conclusion to The Weekend Trilogy. Happy Reading! - (am_)bellanoire

_**The Aftermath** _

**I**

_"Never did I imagine that you would play a major part in a decision that's so hard...do I leave, do I stay, do I go...I think about my life and what matters to me the most...but when you love someone you just don't treat them bad, oh how I feel so sad now that I want to leave..." -_ Where I Wanna Be, Donnell Jones

* * *

_'Pack your bags, pet. I've come to take you with me.'_

_'Hermione,what's going on?'_

_'Don't do this Bella.'_

_'I'm in love with your wife, and if you try to stop us, I think I might kill you.'_

_'Mummy?'_

_'Who do you love? Who do you chose?'_

_'Them. I chose them.'_

_'Oh. Well then.'_

_The flash of green is painfully blinding, deadly accurate, and frighteningly final as it hits Ron in the chest and forever dims the light in his shock widened eyes. Someone is screaming, the sound high pitched with terror and disbelief. Ron is dead. And Bella is gone. The world begins to crumble at my feet as my focus shifts to my son, standing stock still, watching everything unfold. My hand tightens around my wand as I beckon and coax my child to me. He heeds the summons as if in a trance, turning around when prompted. I aim the wand at the back of his head, the spell on the tip of my tongue..._

I wake with a sharp scream, my body jerking violently as if I had been electrocuted, so much so that I almost tumble off of the couch where I realize I had fallen asleep. My breath bursts from my mouth in harsh pants, my skin cool and clammy, drenched in sweat. My eyes burn with hot tears and my hands are trembling.

It takes me more than a couple of minutes to gather my bearings. Blinking rapidly, my blurred vision slowly clears and adjusts to my surroundings. I know I am downstairs in the living room. I can remember sitting here last night after Hugo and I made our impromptu pancake dinner. I remember reading. I remember Ron sitting beside me, remember the irritation his futile attempts at seduction had evoked. But more than anything, I remember the vivid nightmare that had taken root in my brain as I slept, its poisonous tendrils twisting and twining to weave together a scene that had been so real, so terrifyingly real.

My stomach rolls dreadfully and the need to retch prompts me to my shaking legs. I start to dry heave, nothing comes up, but the nausea isn't quelled. In all of the years I have been married to Ron, despite the disappointment, despite the anger, the frustration, the overall unhappiness, I had never thought about, never envisioned, never dreamed of hurting him, causing him harm, causing his death. Oh God. I can't breathe. I've known Ron since I was eleven. We had been best friends throughout Hogwarts, he, Harry, and I. The infamous Golden Trio who seemed to get ourselves in the craziest situations and adventures. It's a wonder we weren't expelled. But we made it, our friendship intact over the seven years, even after Harry began dating Ron's younger sister Ginny, and Ron and I embarked on this awkward sort of courtship that somehow ended with us exchanging vows and Rosie and Hugo being born.

Hugo. My baby boy. In the nightmare, I had made the decision to remove his memories of the crime he had witnessed. Whether to protect him or to cover myself and my dark lover, I don't know. Small details are draining away like water in a sieve. But I know I will never forget seeing the light leave my husband's eyes. I will never forget watching him crumple in a heap on the living room floor. Will never forget my lover Disapparating from the scene with a sharp crack that was as final a goodbye as death, a sound that had cleaved my heart in two.

Ignoring the tumultuous tornado of emotions ravaging my body from the inside, I bolt up the stairs, two at a time, my heart pounding so hard I can feel the thumps in my throat. I throw open the door to my son's room, for one mad second unsure of what I might find. But he is there. Safe and sound. Laying in the center of the bed, his head of russet curls visible beneath the blankets. One hand up by his face, his lips parted slightly. Angelic, always, ever since he had been born. Ron had been ecstatic that this second child of ours was a boy. He had regaled me to near insanity of tales where he and his boy would attend Chudley Canon games, how Hugo would play Keeper for Gryffindor, just like he had. Suffice it to say, he had been more than disappointed that our boy had grown into a sweet and sensitive little bookworm. "Merlin, Hermione, he's just like you," he had said often, not at all masking his displeasure. And while I could have argued that our firstborn, our daughter, was like his twin, I had merely shrugged it off all while continuing to nurture my little boy and his quiet talents and pleasures.

Rosie's room is next and while she is sleeping with her injured arm at a strange angle as if it still pains her even though I had magically mended it before going to make pancakes with her brother, she too is safe. Yes, she really is my husband in a smaller, feminine body, but I love her just as fiercely as I love my son.

My husband. He lays sprawled on the bed we share, arms and legs draped over the duvet all askew as if he went falling through the ceiling and had sloppily landed. But the rise and fall of his chest coupled with that god awful snoring of his that has kept me awake many a night, confirms that he is unharmed. Despite my automatic eye roll, the relief that overcomes me at seeing Ron alive is staggering.

They're fine. They are all fine.

My pulse rate gradually slows as the evidence of my family's safety restores my peace of mind. Yet still, there is a piece of that peace missing. And that piece has wild sable curls, deep ocean black eyes, a wicked red smirk, and my beating heart in her hands. That dream, it was a double edged sword. It made me realize that while I love my family, so too do I love my lover. I love Bellatrix Lestrange. I've always loved her, I've always wanted her. I admired her as a girl, playing this competitive game with her past Hogwarts accolades. I loved her the moment I laid eyes on her in Diagon Alley in front of Morsmordre. When I asked her to train me, for the weeks, the months that went by before the sexual tension between us reached its crescendo, I could not get her out of my mind. For as dominant a witch my Bella is, I was the aggressor. Baiting her and baiting her, until finally she could no longer resist. And the first time I made love to her, a gentle passionate love that made manifest the sheer adoration I felt for her, I knew I had her. The duel we fought for her own heart, as intense as it was, affirmed when she could no longer cast an offensive spell, that she was just as enthralled as I was and still am.

But she had never told me she loved me. She never asked if I loved her. Not until the last time we lay together. Not until she had uttered that forbidden question and I had confessed to it, swept away and flailing in the undertows of her waves of pleasure. She had torn if from within me and I knew then the feelings to be mutual. She had asked the same question in my dream. Coupled with another. The question of a choice. And my answer had aided in the murder of my spouse. It makes me wonder. I makes me wonder if perhaps this isn't enough. Is it enough for her, these trysts on the weekends, hidden in secret from both our husbands? Is it enough for me? I can see the dream version of her, so realistic, can see the look of betrayal and heartbreak on her face just before the Killing Curse is cast. I can hear the possessiveness in her voice. Because Bella is so possessive. I feel it in the way she touches me. The way she looks at me. The way she speaks to me. Someone like her, they are not made to share. Cannot be placated for long. What is theirs is theirs. And I am hers.

Even I have my own bouts of jealousy when I consider her relationship with her dueling trainers, particularly the sole female one. The connection the five of them seem to have that could never include me. When I consider the fact that she had been married longer than I have. Over twenty years. And regardless of whether or not she and her husband have the traditional married relations, it still bothers me to know that after her and I are together, she goes home to him. I wonder if had it not been for this nightmare I've just woken up from, would a variant have been me invading the Estate and killing Rodolphus Lestrange, or me flying into a jealous and possessive rage, storming into the dueling hall and taking out the female duelist, Alecto Carrow, just because I've noticed the way her eyes linger on Bella. And the way Bella sometimes talks about her with this subtle fondness that makes me want to grind my teeth together.

I have to see her. It is well after midnight, nearly two in the morning according to the clock. I have to work tomorrow. But in this moment none of that matters. There is no way after all that has happened in the past few hours that I can let an entire week go by without seeing Bella. There are so many questions that need to be answered. There are doubts that need to be removed. Fears that need to be assuaged. Words that need to be said. The nightmare, it is a wake up call. I need to confront this dilemma head on. I can no longer sweep it all under the rug. I can no longer go on with the monotony of my day to days, just waiting to be shocked back to life on Friday nights. I can no longer go on like this. Perhaps this dream was a sign that I've reached some kind of breaking point. Maybe Bellatrix is reaching one too. I need to know before my subconscious kills off another one of my loved ones.

Unable to help myself, I take another peek into my children's rooms before going back downstairs. Dressed in nothing but my rather baggy striped pajamas that are hardly flattering, my hair a bit of a tangled brown mess, I stand before the fireplace and grab a handful of Floo powder from the pot. It's funny. Usually when I'm due to see my lover, I'm so meticulous with my appearance. Not because she expects it, or has ever really asked me to dress or look a certain way. It is more the aura Bella gives off, I suppose, growing up the way she did. For as wild and as coarse and destructive she can be, even with her untameable mass of curls which are beautiful in their own chaotic right, I have never seen her put together in a way that was not inherently desirable. And I suppose the insecure part of me always wants to ensure she thinks the same of me.

But this is an emergency. I can't be bothered to fix myself up. Not when my emotions are heightened and a very real fear is brewing like a storm within me. For the first time since we began our affair, I feel torn between my family and my lover. As if I'm standing in the middle of the four of them - my children and husband on one side, Bella on the other - and my wrists are locked in opposing grasps, my body being pulled in both directions until I am eventually torn apart.

There is no room for petty insecurities when I am barreling head first into territory that I've been trying to avoid for nearly a year. Finally it is catching up to me. And honestly, the only thing worse than Ron finding out about Bella and I, is me being put in a situation where I am made to choose. The nightmare had forged both disasters together and had ultimately concluded in tragedy.

Was this a premonition? Had I finally developed the ever elusive Inner Eye and seen directly into my own future? Batty old Professor Trelawney would be thrilled at the prospect, wouldn't she? But I am shaken.

I throw the powder into the crackling flames, watching them go from reddish orange to emerald green. I had gotten to Bella's home this way before. She had interconnected our fireplaces even though her perferred method to come by me was Apparation. I step into the hearth, the fire cool against my skin. Careful not to take too deep a breath that would only leave me coughing and sputtering on soot and ash, I call out in a clear and steady voice that belies how anxious I actually feel, "Lestrange Estate."

With my elbows tucked tightly against my body, the sheer speed whips my already tangled hair madly about my head. Other fireplaces and hearths pass by in a blur, most fully extinguished or smoldered down to embers given the late hour. After a moment, I shut my eyes, the nausea from earlier beginning to resurface though this time its due less to my emotional state and more to the fact that I am rocketing through a confined space with no sense of gravity beneath my feet. I've always hated flying.

The flames flare with a roar, spitting me out into a dimly lit bed chamber whose somber, aphotic ambiance I am more than familiar with. Heavy wooden antique furniture cast shadows on the floor, brought to life by the moonlight filtering in through the bow windows that face the western sky. Bella's scent hits me at once, invading my nostrils, curling like smoke, assaulting my senses with essences of dark spices, citrus, and vanilla. It instantly sparks a sinful pulse of arousal between my thighs.

I don't have a chance to attempt to stifle my errant sexual desire because in the next moment, my lover suddenly sits up in bed, her walnut wand aimed precisely at my chest, her hand steady. Eyes like chiseled flecks of obsidian are narrowed on me, brows knitted tightly above them, the muscles of her jaw clenched. A moonlit beam hits her face at an angle, playing with the shrouding contrast of her hair, making her skin seem paler than bone. The magical energy she is throwing off is heated, tense and I remember just how intimidating this witch can be. But along with that memory comes the one of her from my nightmare. The strikingly similar way she stares me down, armed, ready to maim, ready to kill at the slightest bit of movement from whom she assumes to be an intruder.

The weight of every single emotion I have been feeling in the past hour - terror, pain, despair, heartache, frustration, unconditional love, and arousal - it has finally become too much, too heavy to hold back, too arduous to keep at bay.

I burst into tears.

"Hermione?" There are no traces of sleep in her tone, any semblance of slumber probably shocked out of her by my unexpected arrival and my current unstable state. The alarm is evident in the way she calls me by my given name, something she does quite rarely. She immediately lowers her wand as recognition settles over her features and abandons her bed to come toward me. She's wearing nothing but a black satin dressing gown that leaves nothing of her figure to the imagination. Despite my heavy sobs and rapid, panicked breathing, I can't help but notice how beautiful she is.

She is holding me now, somewhat stiffly as she doesn't do too well with comforting others. But it is enough. Her strong arms manage to hold me together when I feel as if I am falling apart.

"What is it?" she asks, her voice firm and even, trying to cut through the barrier clearly blocking my sense of reason. Her breath is warm against the column of my throat, making me shiver slightly in her embrace. "What's happened?"

I burrow my teary face into her sea of curls, breathing in the scent of her as I try to collect myself, trying to draw from her strength, trying not to drown in the intoxicating rush that consumes me whenever I am near her. It merely makes the tears flow freer.

" _Hermione_. Tell me what's wrong," Bella orders sharply, giving me a rather solid shake as if to stop my downward spiral before it can descend any further.

"You," I finally manage to gasp, the word hoarse and strained, "You murdered my husband."


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Aftermath** _

**II**

I love Mondays.

Nothing out of the ordinary usually occurs. Morsmordre is open for business the same as it always is. I handle the administrative aspects first and foremost in my office before stepping out into the hall to oversee sparring matches, correct stances, perform countercurses when needed. Then I get my turn to play, blow off some steam, fuel that fire within me that I love to let burn and burn unbridled.

What makes the day so spectacular is the way I wake up. The way I roll over in my bed, stuck within that peculiar limbo of sleep and consciousness. My body aches in pleasurable fashion just as it always does on Mondays. The muscles in my thighs throb the most viciously, followed by those in my arms and wrists. There is some vague stinging sensation where nails have scored my back. My neck is covered in purple bruises and teeth marks. My throat is sore, vocal chords having sustained abuse from passion fueled screams.

All day it serves as a reminder, the small, intimate aches and tingles in my body, creating the most delicious flashbacks, painting vivid images of how I spent my weekend before my mind's eye. Like an addict, I use these tools to appease my cravings for the only person in the world who can affect me on so base a carnal level, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it.

And we've been shagging for months.

It's just enough to keep me going throughout the day, and the rest of the week, the anticipation building and building as each day passes until it reaches its pinnacle. The release though, is stratospheric. The mere thought makes me moan low in my throat as I retire to bed Monday night.

The only thing that dulled the day was a tiny, annoying part of my brain that every so often made me remember my little slip of the tongue. And no, not the good sort. The confession of love sort. It had been rather indirect in its wording true, but had been answered with the desired response. What does it mean? I don't know. And I don't wish to think on it. We shall deal with it next weekend. And perhaps she will have forgotten about it by then. Loads of insane things are said while in the throes of passion. I soothe myself with that cleverly crafted explanation and drift off to sleep.

My reflexes, from decades of dueling, are rather easily triggered, so it is without thought or reason that I am roused from my slumber some hours later by the sounds of someone, a very _very_ foolish someone, invading my chambers by Floo. The roaring flames and the spit and clang of the fireplace's grate is unmistakable. My wand is in my hand as if silently summoned and aimed at the intruder, a Stunning Spell on the tip of my tongue. The white glare of moonlight and the cloudy blur of sleep in my eyes makes it difficult to make out anything more than a dark shape between the window and the armoire.

But then the unidentified person starts to sob piteously and something in my chest clenches and my head unfogs when I immediately recognize the voice.

"Hermione?"

Her name rolls off my tongue like honeyed wine, though my shock takes out the sweetness. I lower my wand and vacate my bed in an instant, crossing the room until I'm standing in front of her. My heart is beating wildly, adrenaline coursing through my veins, preparing my body to deal with whatever emergency has brought her to my home at so late an hour and on a weeknight. Weekdays are off limits. As per our agreement. At first it was difficult to deal with, on both our ends, so drunk off of each other as we were in the beginning. But now we've settled into the role of being part time lovers. And neither one of us has slipped up once. Until tonight.

So, naturally, I assume the worst. One of her children falling gravely ill. One of her parents meeting an untimely demise. Her husband completing his Auror mission months earlier than expected. Her falling pregnant with rug rat number three.

I embrace her, awkwardly, torn between the desire to comfort her, and the uncomfortability it evokes to have to do so. But I need her to calm down just enough to tell me what the matter is. So that I can help. How I'll do that, I haven't the bloody foggiest, but something about the way she cries always makes me want to move mountains with my bare hands just to dry her tears. As fucking pathetic as it is.

My questions go unanswered. She burrows her face into my messy dark curls, drawing herself down and forward, because she is taller, so that her chin can rest against the crook of my shoulder as she continues to bawl her bleeding eyes out. Sweet Salazar, she is so warm. It's hard to remain stoic when she is this close to me. Its an affect she's always managed to have, even from the first day we met. Her nearness, it's bewitching. Always.

Only slightly rougher than I mean to, I give her a shake, my tone taking on a sharp edge as I attempt to cut through her emotions. I need her to hear me so she can tell me what is going on. Third time proves to be the charm because her hazel gaze meets mine and I can finally see her.

Her response is clear as a bell despite its tearfulness but manages to catch me so off guard in its complete and utter farfetchedness, I think I might have gone temporarily deaf. Really, it's the only logical solution I can conceive, because she honestly could not have just said -

" _You murdered my husband._ "

I am at a loss for words. Which in itself is quite uncharacteristic. Without looking it at, I have no name for the expression on my face but given how expressive I know my face to be, I can guess it is some livid cross between confusion and outrage. My stunned silence doesn't last long at all.

"I did _what_?"

My tone is shrill enough to make her flinch away from it and that reaction fills me with a bit of satisfaction. The audacity of her to come here, wake me up, make me all concerned, and then accuse me of murder? I think I would remember killing someone if I'd done it. Sure, I care for her. Deeply. More than I think I've cared for anyone. But I would not risk a life sentence in Azkaban just because her husband's presence annoys the both of us. I would put him on his arse in a duel, just to prove how much more worthy I am of her, but that is beside the point. Idiotic to boot. I am the mistress. That's the role I settled for. Not the spouse. And I never would be. No matter how much I have grown to hate the fact. For fuck's sake, I am married too. I've no right to be jealous.

"What the hell are you talking about, Granger?" I suppose she can tell my mood by how I refer to her. Most people can. And it isn't even something I have to think about. When I'm being playful or in a particularly lusty mood, she's my pet. When I'm serious, she's Hermione. And when I'm angry enough to strangle her, such as I am now, she's Granger. "If this is some stupid, sodding joke, I _swear_ -"

"Of course it isn't a joke!" She is annoyed now. I can tell by the way her eyes flash and her face hardens. Annoyance is good. Annoyance means no more tears for now. I can deal with annoyance. And I rather like the fire inside her, similar to my own. I love it when she unleashes that hidden Gryffindor lioness within her. Despite everything, I'm turned on by it.

"I dreamed it."

My desire is quenched just as quickly as it ignited, indignation returning in full force. My hands come to a rest on my hips as I cock an incredulous dark brow and glare at her. "You broke into my room, woke me up, hysterically upset because of a nightmare? Why not just snuggle up with Weasley and let him kiss it better."

It's a low blow, even for me. Yet I cannot lie and say I'm not trying to rile her up just a bit so I don't feel like I am attacking her. Because then I will feel guilty. And I hate feeling guilty about anything.

She does not disappoint. Her eyes narrow and she walks away from me, her strides furious as she makes her way to my bed and perches herself on the edge. She tilts her head back, scowling up at the ceiling, inhaling sharply and exhaling harshly. A small spell passes before she turns her attention back to me, her body rigid, her cutting gaze sidelong.

" _Don't_. It was real." She sighs softly, a flash of that sadness briefly marring her features as the blunt edges of her teeth begin to worry at the left corner of her bottom lip, "Or at least it felt real. It felt so real, Bella."

I stand my ground, though I can feel my resolve weakening as it tends to do where she is concerned. I try to remember when it came to pass that she could hold such sway over me. No one has been able to accomplish such a feat, not since Riddle. But then again, he hadn't really felt the same way toward me. I shake my head to clear the thought away. That is in the past.

"Well it wasn't real. Not if Ginger Boy is still breathing." Her husband is alive and well. Her children too. They need her. She belongs to them. At least until the weekend. The weekend is my time. I am not allowed to care for her, to want her, to...love her. Not until then. She cannot be here now. Not on Monday night, Tuesday morning. It will ruin everything. And for Merlin's sake, my bedlinens are going to smell of her. She needs to leave. "Go home."

"I don't want to." There is an air of petulance to the statement that doesn't really bother me as much as it should. In fact it makes a very inappropriate flame of hope flicker to life in the center of my chest. But I douse it quickly and easily, thinking of the life she would be giving up if I allow that hope to burn.

"Hermione. Stop." My tone has softened now, my anger beginning to fade as I join her on my bed. I'm not touching her, not yet. But I can offer comfort without it. My proximity should be enough if she merely needs to vent. And I know she needs to because she reminds me of me and at her age, and I had needed a listening ear far more than I had even realized at the time.

"I just can't, not right now," she murmurs, her hands twisting themselves together in her lap as she glances over at me, "You don't get it, it was as if it had really happened. I've never had a dream like that before."

"Okay," I relent at last, lifting a hand to brush a lock of her hair behind her ear so that I can see her face fully, "Tell me what happened."

She nods and begins to recount a tale that puts me in her living room late at night, demanding she pack her things and run away with me. In the dream, apparently I threatened her husband at wand point if he should try and stop us. It seemed dramatic, even for me. Irrational. Yet still, against my better judgement, that tiny part of my thoughts that had plagued me all day seemed to delight at the idea of her and I eloping somewhere, leaving the world behind.

"I wanted to go," her voice cuts through the insane notion, despite its trembling softness and I don't know whether I am grateful or disappointed, "Merlin help me, I wanted to go with you."

I remain silent, hardly daring to breathe, somehow knowing things are going to take a turn.

"But then Hugo came downstairs and I - I just couldn't. I couldn't go, Bella. You asked me to choose."

That made no sense. I would never ask her to choose between her family and I. She was a wife and mother before she was my lover. I know that. I'd always known that. Why did she think I would? But then my own words from the night before last slowly replay in my mind.

" _Who do you love?_ "

And her oh so fervid response, " _You. I love you, Bella. I love you..._ "

Fuck me dead. Had I inadvertently asked her to choose that night? Is that why it had been bothering me so much? Besides the fact that it had gone against one of our unspoken rules. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid. They did not need to be vocalized to be known. Both she and I already know how we feel about each other. Just as how we both know that it could never mean anything. Had I, in my passion induces haze, pushed her subconcious into constructing the nightmare? A nightmare, that had it occured in truth, would have put an end to everything we have.

I don't want to know, yet I can't help but ask, "What happened then?"

Her gaze seems haunted as she looks over at me once again, "I chose them. And you murdered my husband."

I wish she would stop saying that. It's something about the way she says the word 'murder' when attached to my name that makes me feel like she is accusing me of something I clearly haven't done.

"And you know I would not do something like that," I say, but even to my own ears it sounds as if I'm trying to convince her of the fact. Which is absolutely stupid.

"Of course," she gasps and she startles me by taking my hands in hers, squeezing them as she brings them up to her face, "I know you, Bella. I'm just shaken up. I hate this. I hate feeling like this. Ron was my best friend growing up. It bothers me that a part of me thinks that you could hurt him. Or that I might want him hurt."

"But you don't. You love him. You love your kids. You have a family with him and even if he frustrates you, annoys you, disgusts you, you still love him." The words are like acid in my mouth but I force them out anyway, ignoring the way they make my chest feel heavy and my tongue ache.

"But I -"

I put a finger against her lips, hushing her before she can finish the sentence. She doesn't have to. I already know what she is going to say and I don't want to hear it. Not right now.

"Don't." The 'please' is there even if it is silent. "It's late. You should go back home now."

"I should," she repeats slowly, her tone strangely empty, vague, "I know I should."

I let my eyes slip shut as she agrees. I don't want to see her go. But I know she has to. I know I will see her this weekend. But I can't help the feeling that what we share is coming to an end. I always knew it would eventually, knew it wouldn't be enough. History repeating itself. It shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Old pain is supposed to ache, not sting.

But in the next moment, she surprises me again by sliding closer. My body trembles as she embraces me. Her sweet smell assualting my senses. Her warmth drowning me. She doesn't let go. She just keeps holding me. And then her teeth nip at the shell of my ear and I let out a low, greedy groan at the sensation.

Fighting against what my body wants to do, I stiffen against her. No, we can't do this. Not now. It wouldn't be right. A heady moan rises in my throat as I feel her mouth trail lower until coming to a pause at my pulse point. She gently suckles the purple flesh, still sensitive from her past assault and I struggle not to squirm even as arousal spikes and that oh so familiar feeling of wanting to just melt into her becomes overwhelming. Oh, Salazar, she needs to stop. But I don't want her to.

"Please," she whispers against my neck, peppering my bruised skin with scalding kisses that send tendrils of heat up my spine, " _Please_ , I need you. I need to touch you." Fuck, her voice is thick and low as she begs, hoarse and sultry, "Let me make love to you, Bella. Please, let me..."

I cannot deny her and I don't even want to try, knowing it will be futile. So, I grab a handful of her hair, tugging hard enough to draw a strangled cry from her lips. Lips that I immediately claim with my own in a deep, searing kiss. She tastes as she always does to me, like peaches and sweetpea in bloom, an overwhelmingly provocative combination that makes my head spin and my body thrum. I ignore my troubled thoughts and my fracturing heart as I part from her, gazing into her dewy hazel eyes.

" _Yes_."


End file.
